


Flowers

by kuillsins (EykielAfterDark)



Category: MapleStory
Genre: M/M, PWP and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EykielAfterDark/pseuds/kuillsins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Flower crowns,” says Eun. He stoops to gather some of the wildflowers, carefully twisting a length of stalk before breaking it. “Can you make them?”</p><p>PWP, but with flowers and fluff. You are warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> A work produced on fuckable freud friday and 801 day (alternatively yaoi day), themed with the #maple_60mins prompt of "Flowers". Not my best work, but it'll do for now. 
> 
> Tried something different with the style. I need some getting used to it though; I just hope it works out. Enjoy!

This glade is Freud’s secret. He visits on noisy days when nothing is going right and he simply has to get away for a bit. Here, there isn’t a need for the calm smile the others all adore, no need for pretense or answers.

“Wow,” says Eun, after a long while. His face is lit with childish wonder, his eyes wide and mouth going slack for a few precious, unconscious moments as he takes in the perfect circle of lush grass and the spectrum of flowers nestled amongst the soft blades.

“You should come here when it snows,” smiles Freud. “Everything is white and it almost looks like a painting. You’d love it. Probably have a lot of fun painting it, too.” He flops down in the little hollow that he is well-acquainted with, letting out a sigh.

“I don’t doubt it.” Eun’s gaze is momentarily broken by the looping path of a butterfly that almost glitters in the light.

Freud watches openly, he cannot get enough of Eun. The man has gone through too much weather, he bears the mark of too many blades, but still is well-chiseled and almost angular in all the right places, perfectly toned and taut.

Freud can’t quite get enough of him. Not only for his body. But Eun himself. He moves with the certainty of a dancer, and all the world’s his stage. His kind of movements are as seamless as the pirouette of a bird through the sky, a leaf whirled around by the wind.

Yet for all his grace the man seems completely unaware of the effect he has on others and has simply attributed their stares elsewhere. Even the sight of Eun just standing there, with his usually-intense amethyst gaze caught by the glitter of innocence and with sunlight running down the molten onyx of his hair, envelopes Freud in a warmth he has long given up trying to explain.

Eun notices his stare and tilts his head just slightly, gaze searching.

“It’s nothing.” Freud shakes his head, unable to get rid of the stubborn upward twitch of his lips.

The man studies him for a while more, his gaze as deep and unreadable as it has always been, before he abruptly says, “Flower crowns.”

“What?” Freud blinks, thinking he misheard.

“Flower crowns,” repeats Eun, more clearly. He stoops to gather some of the wildflowers, carefully twisting a length of stalk before breaking it. “Can you make them?”

Freud laughs, earning himself a raised eyebrow from the mercenary. Eun looks so serious, enquiring about whether Freud knows the art of threading of flowers in a ring. It’s the kind of expression Eun wears to council of war meetings. The kind Freud doesn’t associate with flower crowns.

“No, I don’t. I’ve never tried. But they are pretty.”

Eun looks up with a slight flick of his head that skillfully sweeps his fringe to the side . “Really?” He sounds unimpressed. “The smartest scholar in the world has never tried to make flower crowns?”

“Last I checked, that wasn’t a requirement to join the Alliance.”

Eun lopes over with the spoils of his gathering clutched carefully in his slender hands. Freud grins at him, and then closes his eyes as Eun drops the flowers on his hair.

He doesn’t shake them off yet, staying perfectly still. “Oh, I have a flower crown now. Do I meet the requirements now, O mighty chancellor Eun Wol?”

Eun settles in the grass beside him and starts brushing the flowers off. “Absolutely not. This is a poor excuse for a flower crown.”

“Technically I am wearing it, and you’re just brushing it away —”

“Do not insult the art of weaving flower crowns.”

Eun teaches him patiently, showing him how to split the stems, thread them through in the right directions, braid them to hold them in place. But no matter how hard Freud tries, he learns that he somehow is unable to braid a proper crown.

He ends up with a limp-looking one. After trying valiantly to repair it, Eun hands it back with a slight smile playing about his lips.

“Hey!” Freud nudges him with his elbow and scowls. “Not all bookworms are good with their hands!”

“Apparently not,” muses Eun innocently.

Freud learns that Eun isn’t ticklish when he pushes the man to the ground and tries to teach him a lesson. And then Freud regrets it wholeheartedly.

Eun’s fingers torture his sides mercilessly, the man ignoring his half-laughs, half-sobs as he begs for mercy. He doesn’t even know what he’s screaming, just that he’s making wild grasps at Eun’s hands, trying to dislodge the man’s grasp, squirming and writhing so hard that the dragon master headband falls to the ground, and Eun bursts into laughter —

All of a sudden it ceases, and Freud finds Eun’s lips pressed to his, stealing his breath, but he can’t resist reciprocating although his lungs are almost bursting. It is sweet, tender, like twilight, and it tastes like love though it is messy, a little too much tongue, and Eun nips on his bottom lip one too many times.

It takes effort to open his eyes and readjust his bearings from the haze of pure, overwhelming satisfaction that has overcome him. But when he does he is rewarded with the sight of Eun above him, eyes twinkling, framed by a soft golden halo of springtime sun and with his flower crown askew on his head.

“I love you,” Freud says, because he truly does.

Eun closes his eyes a moment. He always does. Eun looks as though he will simply dissolve into a puddle if he lets himself go, and he is fighting his hardest to keep himself in check.

“And I you,” he says after a while. His eyes are glazed.

Again Eun presses their lips together. Freud gasps and arches into the kiss, savoring Eun against him as he fumbles with the zipper of his trousers. He feels Eun pull it to his knees, his briefs following suit soon after, and Eun pulls away to work at his own belt and pants.

“Why do you always carry oil with you?” Freud scowls as he wipes his mouth, already breathing hard.

Eun actually smirks at him, starts gently stroking himself, slicking himself with the oil. Freud watches Eun’s member react and feels the signs of arousal start awakening his own.

“Because I learned to always be prepared for anything.” Eun presses a finger to his entrance and Freud breathes in, relaxes to let it in. “And the sex with you is always so good —”

“You don’t need to put it that way!”

“I don’t mince words. You know that.”

“Not as if we’d have less sex if you didn’t carry lube everywhere —”

Eun cuts him off with a finger pressed firmly against his prostate and Freud bites back a groan. “We have enough sex because I do.”

Freud is about to reply when Eun slips in another finger and immediately tries to scissor them. He almost swears. “E-Eun! Not so fast!”

“I love how you’re so sensitive. So ready for me. So wanting,” whispers Eun instead, only continuing to move his fingers when Freud nods again. Freud finds himself smiling sheepishly, face burning so fiercely there should already be a flush.

“How can I forget that you have such a huge libido?”

“Exactly.” Eun slips in another finger and Freud twists his hips unconsciously, trying to get them to hit his prostate again. “Means we’re not having enough sex.”

He huffs as Eun pulls his fingers away and lines his member up. He can feel the head throbbing against his entrance, deliciously hard and hot. “Sitting down is a job requirement for scholars, Eun!”

“Nonsense. You read with your eyes, not with your sweet, tight… oh gods yes.”

Eun slides in and Freud gasps at the long-awaited friction, the pleasure rushing through him. Freud pulls Eun down roughly to kiss him again, clenching gently around Eun and lapping just under his jaw, determined to get some unhinged sound from him.

“Moan for me, Eun,” he growls low into Eun’s ear, fastening his teeth around the earlobe and tugging sharply.

Eun actually shudders, letting out a shaky sound of need, husky, syrupy. It makes Freud giddy with the knowledge that Eun is making these sounds because of him. The hard mass inside him throbs. Grass is pressing into the back of his neck, the strands of Eun’s hair falling over his chest like rivers of obsidian, and the man’s face engulfed in pleasure that lights something carnal in the depths of his eyes.

Freud only knows to gasp each time Eun thrusts inside him, finding his prostate after shifting the angle several times, an art borne only out of sheer familiarity. Yes, they may have been having a lot of sex — maybe too much — but Freud can always do with more of the sweet heat inside him, more of the addictive, mind-numbing presence of Eun inside him and the picture of Eun, falling apart from the sheer intensity of the pleasure.

Eun’s expression flickers. Freud blinks, finding his world flipped, Eun is lying on the grass, propped up on one elbow while he holds Freud steady with the other.

“Can’t be doing all the work, can I?” grins Eun.

Freud almost laughs, but smacks Eun’s midriff instead. “You said it was my turn to take it easy!”

“I changed my mi—”

Freud clenches hard around Eun, grinning wider as Eun’s words falter into a mess of incoherent warbles.

“I get the next two turns,” Freud glowers, but he doesn’t keep track. Neither of them do.

Freud props himself up properly, finally releasing Eun, who lets out a huge exhalation of relief which quickly turns to gasps as Freud begins to move. Pleasure soon clouds his mind, blurring his thoughts, leaving nothing but Eun, Eun, sweet Eun, whose intense gaze has melted and is unfocused, the man’s lips parted sweetly as he pants for breath.

He clenches again for good measure, loving the way Eun throbs so fiercely inside him, loving Eun’s expression, the unhinged look speaking of lost control that only Freud gets to see.

He can feel the edge approaching, the surge creeping up on him, ready to crest and wash him away. All he can think of is how perfectly Eun fills him, how glorious each thrust feels, how deep he reaches, how lucky, so amazingly, amazingly lucky he is to be loving a man like Eun.

Eun shifts beneath him and he opens his eyes. Eun is sitting upright now, carefully supporting Freud’s weight by the ass and waist. The new position opens Freud up wider and he has to grip Eun’s shoulders in support, he’s so far gone he fears he won’t be able to hold himself up. Freud’s member is rutting up against Eun’s midriff, already leaking and so red.

One of Eun’s hands shift and Freud makes a sound of exasperation as Eun drops another flower crown onto his head.

“Here,” Eun snickers between pants. “Now you have… your flower crown.”

This man is absurd. Freud resists the urge to burst into laughter. They’re in the middle of mind-blowing pleasure and all Eun can think of is his floral art? Maybe Eun just had a more refined taste than he let up on.

“So we’re both kings,” Freud gasps, chuckling.

“Yes. But my allegiance… is to this king,” Eun says, eyes twinkling as he carefully deposits a white wildflower onto the tip of Freud’s shaft. “Here is its flower crown.”

“Your allegiance should be… to my ass!” Freud bursts out laughing, pausing his thrusts to clench viciously around Eun.

Eun lets out the most broken, needy sound Freud has ever heard, it wrecks him so hard that he almost comes there and then. Eun laughs once more before he thrusts upwards harder, hips pumping erratically as he lets go of his control, chasing after his orgasm. Freud can only fight to keep drawing breath on every movement, and he lets the pleasure crash over him and surge through his entire body.

He gasps Eun’s name only once as he orgasms before Eun swallows the sound with another kiss that is more teeth than lips. A few more thrusts and Eun presses deep inside him, and stills. Warmth coats his insides, and Freud cracks his eyes open to watch Eun as he gives himself in to his climax.

“I forgot to bring a towel,” confesses Eun later, after they lie there until they get their breaths back and after Freud has given his seventeen reasons why Eun’s king shouldn’t be Freud’s cock but ass (“My allegiance is to your cock!” huffed Freud — reason number four).

“You remember to bring lube but not your towel?” Freud looks up from braiding the failed flower crown into Eun’s hair. “Do I need to whip out a checklist before each time we have sex?”

“Yes. You can be promoted to royal secretary—”

“Don’t make me bite you, Eun. Gods, it’s like they know to let me hide the mess down there with my robes over my trousers.”

“For the record, I enjoyed it. And if you have your robe then I don’t need to bring a towel at all.”

“Sure! I’m not that picky. I can settle for cleaning myself off on your scarf.”

Eun makes a sound of mock annoyance. Freud closes his eyes as they kiss again, losing himself in the man’s eyes the same shade as the sky above them.

“Whatever my king wishes,” murmurs Eun, smiling softly.

“Just stay with me. It’s all I’d ever ask.”

“Done.”

 

 


End file.
